


One Year With Peter Hale

by Suphomie



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Dead Sheriff, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief, M/M, Slow Burn, Somewhat, Unhealthy Relationships, no malia, post 3b
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:28:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23783182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suphomie/pseuds/Suphomie
Summary: Stiles is kicked out of school in the Spring.Which also happens to be the time Peter Hale starts to play a significant role in his life.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 20
Kudos: 154





	1. Spring

Stiles gets kicked out of school the week before spring break.

Well, not so much kicked out as told by some (far too) overly kind counselor that due to his inability to handle, well, anything, since his dad’s death, he’s being ‘recommended’ to take off the rest of the semester.

He thinks it’s because he stopped going to class. Or maybe his roommate heard his late night sobbing and ratted him out. What was that kids name again? Something with a J?

It was probably a stupid idea to go back to school immediately after his dads funeral anyways. He knew that, his friends knew that. But anything was better then being home, watching his childhood home be sold because he couldn’t afford it. He had to promise Scott he would find an apartment with the money dad left when the semester was over to get his blessing to go back to school.

Turns out he really couldn’t handle it. Not exactly a shocker. And now he’s back in Beacon Hills anyways, this time homeless, and in the week he’s been home he hasn’t told anybody what happened. How fucking embarrassing that conversation would be.

It’s been pretty easy to lay low, thankfully. With most of his supernaturally inclined friends away at their own schools, and the fact that he’s taken up at Derek’s abandoned loft for the time being, he’s been on his own without detection.

But he knows he can’t keep it going when they’re back for Spring break in a few days. If they don’t catch a whiff of his scent, they’ll definitely notice that his jeep is back on the streets. Or, well, in the parking lot to the complex the loft resides him, he hasn’t actually left since he took up camp here. He’s gonna run out of the energy bars he stocked up on soon anyways.

He’s keeping up the illusion regardless. That he’s doing great in school. That he’s passed his grieving stage. That he’s fine. He texts Scott and Lydia back after all their daily check-ups, talks on the phone with Melissa evey couple of days. He wonders how mad they’ll be when they find out he’s been lying.

Or maybe they’ll just think he’s even more pathetic than he already is. Only time will tell.

Still, he relishes in his alone time at the loft while he still has it. And by relish, he means he lays on the dusty couch and binge watches reality shows in between breakdowns, snacking on his stale energy bars whenever he can stomach them.

The thought of Peter Hale somehow stumbling upon him in this state is not at all on his radar.

Maybe it should’ve been. He never really knows what that guy is up to, and he’s one of the only people besides Stiles who has a key. But still, when the giant industrial door squeaks open he truly does not expect to see Peter standing on the other side.

He stops in his tracks between the empty kitchen and couch, staring stupidly back at him with wide eyes, bottle of water nearly falling from his hands. He’s unsurprised by Peter’s grin as he stares back, confident as ever. Guess he hasn’t changed.

“I was wondering why there was a hideous jeep parked outside.” He says, clearly unbothered that he nearly gave Stiles a heart attack. He looks him up and down, commenting with a head tilt, “I’m still wondering.”

Stiles opens his mouth, nearly blanking. It’s been a while since he’s had to think on his feet, he must be losing his touch. All he thinks to ask is, “Why are you here?”

Not his strongest argument, it’s not exactly like Stiles has the authority to question why anyone’s here when he’s basically a squatter at this point.

Peter indulges him anyways, closing the door behind him as he answers, “I left a few things here.” He steps right past Stiles, walking towards the spiral staircase by the window. “And since my nephew won’t return my calls I decided to make a house call.”

Stiles swallows, standing awkwardly where he froze, not knowing what he should be doing. He really wasn’t expecting to have to interact with anyone, he’s dressed in sweatpants and a ratty old sweater, hair an absolute mess. He hasn’t showered in a week.

“Derek’s not here.” He decides to say, though Peter has to know that, Derek hasn’t lived in Beacon Hills in years.

Peter leans down and grabs a chest from the floor, carrying it over to the table. “I’ve heard.” He comments casually, opening the chest. He pulls out a book and blows dust off of it. “He’s off with that mercenary in the desert,” he looks over the book distractedly, “Which does make me wonder why you’re here. I never did get that answer.”

He’s finally looking up at Stiles now, and Stiles swallows again. “Derek said I could stay here.” He lies.

Peter hums, taking another book out without looking away from him. “Interesting to lie to someone you know can hear your heartbeat.” He says it without any accusation, really, more like he’s just making an observation. Still, he adds, “Last time I heard you were in Washington.”

Stiles shrugs. “It’s Spring Break.”

Peter purses his lips. “This conversation won’t go anywhere if you keep lying to me.”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “What the hell do you care why I’m here?” He snaps suddenly. He’s been doing that lately. Going from uninterested to angry in a split second. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Peter doesn’t react to the bait, simply tilts his head, examining Stiles more deeply. “Well, I guess if you’ve dropped out of school you probably haven’t told anybody. But why stay here and not your own house?”

Stiles doesn’t answer that, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut.

Peter’s eyebrows raise after a moment. “Oh,” he says, not sounding nearly as regretful as any normal person would, “That’s right. I heard what happened.” He goes back to his books, adding, “Shame.”

The way he says it, so fucking casual, Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it. He feels like he should be offended. It’s his dad, he deserves more than that lack luster statement. But he doesn’t think he can handle one more pitiful look or hug or heartfelt condolence.

He doesn’t know why, maybe just to change the subject, he says, “I didn’t drop out of school.”

Peter glances up, his interest seemingly caught again. Stiles shifts, continuing, “They sent me home.” It’s not better. Hell, dropping out sounds way better than a counselor sending him home for being unstable. And it’s also fucked up that he told Peter before anyone else. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t really care what Peter thinks of him. He doesn’t know anymore, this is a weird day.

“Ah.” Peter says, “So you’re in hiding.” He looks him over again, guessing, “And your little friends are about to come home for Spring break. And it’s hard to hide from werewolves”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Nice deduction, Sherlock.” It feels weird to be sarcastic again. He’s felt so dead the last few weeks, he honestly didn’t think he had any asshole-ery left in him. Guess Peter brings it out in him.

Peter smirks at him as Stiles runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s all so tragic.” He muses, resting his hands flat against the table and leaning forward even as Stiles shoots him a glare, “What ever will you do?”

It’s not a genuine question, but even if it was he doesn’t have an answer. He’s dreading them finding out, dreading having to stay on Scott’s couch and have him try to coax him out of this ‘episode’ or whatever.

Peter seems to consider him for a few long moments and Stiles really wishes he would stop doing that. When he’s done, he shrugs, saying casually, “Well, you could always stay with me.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “What the hell?” He asks in surprise. Definitely was not expecting that curveball.

Peter remains as nonchalant as ever, answering the question Stiles didn’t really ask, “I do have a guest bedroom.”

Stiles’ brows are still furrowed in confusion. “Why would I ever want to stay with you?” He’d worry about being too harsh if this was anybody else. But it’s Peter. The Peter that has tried to kill them on several occasions, that terrorized them throughout sophmore year. He’s be crazy to even humor this offer, which he’s honestly not sure is even real to begin with.

Peter raises his brows. “Oh I don’t know. Because you’re so terrified of anyone finding out you were kicked out of college that your hiding in Derek’s loft.” Stiles’ glare only intensifies. “And you smell pretty desperate to me.”

With that, he closes the chest with a loud slam, taking it from the table and carrying it to the door. “Of course, I’m sure you have plenty of options lined up for you.”

Stiles hates how right he is. He hates even more that he’s actually considering this.

He swallows again, asking, “Are you serious?”

Peter turns away from the books. “Yes, Stiles, I’m serious.” He says it slowly, like he’s annoyed he has to spell it out. Well, screw him, Stiles would be stupid not to question this offer.

Stiles can’t help but look him over. “Why?” He tilts his head, “What’s in it for you?”

“Oh, my heart just aches with the need to help troubled youth.” He says, in typical asshole fashion. When Stiles scoffs Peter shoots him a grin and answers again, “I think you’d make interesting company. Does everybody need to have some sinister, ulterior motive?”

“Everyone? No. You? Almost always.” Stiles responds back. He wonders what Peter could possibly be planning that includes Stiles staying at his place. He comes up short, but that doesn’t mean it’s nothing. 

Peter sighs at last. “Suit yourself.” He picks up the chest again, opening the door with his free hand. “Goodbye, Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t know why, but he frowns. He watches as Peter begins to leave and a small part of him really wants to take him up on his bizzare offer. It would be stupid. But so is getting kicked out of school and keeping it a secret. He doesn’t think he can handle having to confront the pack right now, and Peter’s right, he’s out of options.

“Wait.” He finds himself saying without fully considering what he’s doing. Peter stops, looking at him expectantly. Stiles shifts, asking, “Where do you live?”

“An apartment in Riverside.” He answers casually.

Riverside. Almost three towns over. Also a very unlikely place for any of the pack to find him, and far enough that they won’t know he’s back in California by catching his scent. The perfect hiding spot.

He hesitates only a moment more before he says, “Okay, I’ll stay with you. Until I figure something else out.” He adds quickly.

Peter’s smirk isn’t exactly evil, not like he’s just caught Stiles in his trap, but it’s smug enough to be weary. Of course, that may just be his default face. Hard to say. “Great.” He says with emphasis, turning to walk out of the still open door, “Come on.”

“Wh- now?” Stiles says with slight surprise. He’s still in his pajamas. Not like he’s actually gotten dressed in the last week, but still. 

“Yes.” Peter calls as he leaves, “I have dinner plans.”

Stiles stares with his mouth agape for a moment too long before he snaps out of it. He quickly gathers his pillow and the duffle bag holding his entire life, stuffing a few loose clothes into it. He follows behind Peter in a hurry, sliding the door shut behind him.

-

Peter’s apartment is about a half an hour away, which is exactly what Stiles was hoping for. No wolf can catch his scent from this far, and there’s no chance of him accidently running into any of the pack around town. 

When he parks his jeep in the parking garage it feels out of place among the expensive cars. So he’s not surprised when Peter’s apartment building turns out to be a nice one, despite it’s small appearance from the outside. Peter’s place is on the top floor, would probably be considered a penthouse though it’s not too big. Certainly big enough. 

Stiles assesses his surroundings as he walks in after Peter, taking in the living room. Considering everything else, Peter’s expensive furniture and mounds of antique decor doesn’t surprise him either. He glances over at the kitchen, at the wooden cabinets and granite counter tops. He spots a patio door and a hallway leading away on his left. 

Peter drops his keys onto his coffee table, walking past Stiles towards the open kitchen. “Guest room’s down the hall to the right.” He looks through mail on his island counter, “If the door’s locked, that’s my office and you’ve gone too far.”

Stiles already wants to know why his office is locked if he lives alone, but decides to save the question. 

“The washing machine is the last door on the left. Don’t touch my thermostat.” He looks up, raises his eyebrows, “Am I going too fast?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Think I’ve got it.”

The infamous smirk returns. “Perfect.” He says, dropping his mail and walking over to his fridge. “Make yourself at home.” He looks back, and adds, “But first take a shower. You smell terrible.”

With that, he returns to whatever he’s doung. And once again, Stiles is left standing there with a dumbfounded face. About how Peter can be so nonchalant about this? Maybe. About how Stiles actually agreed to it? Definitely. 

-

He does take a shower, a long one, in Peter’s huge bathroom (It’s seriously ridiculous, who need a bathroom this size anyways?). He uses up all of the hot water and then remains a few minutes after until it gets too cold. He stares off at the tiles for a while after that, until finally getting dressed. 

He takes up residence in the guest bedroom then, where he’s lying in the darkened room now. The bed is more comfortable than Derek’s couch, so that’s at least a plus. 

He hasn’t seen Peter since. He can hear him cooking in the other room, but food seems supremely unappealing right now, even just the thought of it. 

So he just lies in the unfamilar bed, staring up at the ceiling. Wondering what the fuck is wrong with him.

Because seriously. This? Probably one of his worst decisions. 

No way in hell this can end well. Peter’s obviously planning something. He always is. Why else would he want Stiles here? Stiles doesn’t know what it would be, exactly, why it would include him, but he smells bullshit. Maybe Peter’s just being an opportunist. Storing Stiles here until he figures out a way to use his vulnerable state to his advantage.

Honestly, though, it’s a little hard to find the strength to care.

He watched his dad go into the ground less than two months ago. He lost the ability to feel anything but numb somewhere along the way. 

All he wants now is to put off the pack finding out about everything. He wants to stew in his grief without all the pitiful looks and silent judgement. That’s all he can bring himself to care about. And if staying here, even if it’s with _Peter_ , will give him that time, he can get through it. He’ll deal with the consequences that will inevitably end in him getting hurt when they come.

His entire life is in shambles anyways, what’s the difference?

-

The next time he sees Peter is the next afternoon, when he’s forced to leave the guest room in search of water. Food is repulsive right now, but unfortunately liquid is still essential.

He hopes desperately that Peter is somewhere else, but he’s never been very lucky. Peter is on the couch, feet up on his coffee table, book in his hands. 

“Look who it is.” He says when Stiles slips past him into the kitchen. Stiles frowns, opening the fridge to search for a water bottle. Peter drops his book, saying, “I was starting to think you died in there.”

He wonders if Peter would even care if he did. He’d probably just be annoyed that he’d have to deal with his body.

He doesn’t respond. He feels the slightest urge to, but it’s pushed down by his melancholy. Like everything lately. Still, Peter stands, walking over to the island and resting his hands flat against the granite. Stiles doesn’t stop his search, even when all he finds are bottles of sparkling water. 

“I’ve never known you to be so...” he hums, examining Stiles thoroughly, “Quiet.”

Stiles doesn’t respond to that either. Maybe he’s just proving the point. He finally finds drinkable water, though in the form of those square bottles that were always to expensive to have in the house. “Use a glass, please, third cabinet.” Peter scolds. Stiles rolls his eyes, but turns towards the cabinets regardless. 

As he pours the water into the first glass he finds, Peter keeps staring at him. Stiles finally turns to him, glaring. “What?”

Peter’s stare doesn’t lessen. “Ah, it speaks.” Stiles sighs, but goes back to his water, takes a sip. “Tell me, when’s the last time you’ve been out of your own little cave?”

A gas station on the way home. He went straight to the loft after that, and has been camping inside since. Obviously he doesn’t tell Peter that. 

“I’m here.” He defends weakly. He has already created a nest in the guest room, though, and is kind of desperate to sink back into it. He has a feeling that’s not going to be able to happen. 

Peter shoots him a slightly amused expression. “You need to go outside. Get fresh air, you’re still a teenager, aren’t you?” He doesn’t correct him that he turned 20 a few months ago. “Go run around in some grass.”

“Am I a golden retriever?” Stiles deadpans. 

Peter ignores that, but squares him up, adding, “You also need new clothes.”

Stiles makes an offended noise, looking down at his current outfit. And, okay, it’s not great. A hoodie and sweatpants. But still, mr. perfect style and hair has no right to insult him. “I have clothes.”

Peter cocks a brow. “Those are the same sweatpants you were wearing yesterday.” Stiles scoffs, but Peter continues judgmentally, “All you have to your name is a ratty old duffle bag.”

“I have stuff.” He tries to defend. “It’s in storage.”

“Oh? And where’s that?”

Stiles frowns again. “At Scott’s house.” He mutters. 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Are you planning on spending the rest of your life in tacky sweatshirts?” He steps away from the counter, grabbing a coat from the coat rack by the door. “Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“ _We_?” Stiles asks incredulously. Going out with Peter, whatever that means, was definitely not in the plans for today. In fact, he didn’t even want to talk to the guy today. Probably stupid to assume he’d be left alone. 

“Yes, _we_.” Peter answers in exasperation. He straightens the collar of his suede jacket and looks to Stiles expectantly. “I’m not going to live with a recluse.”

Stiles huffs. When Peter’s expectant look only turns to one of impatience he says, “I’ll go if I can wear this.” He gestures to his current outfit.

Peter sighs. “Do you have something against listening to instructions, or are you just trying to get under my skin?”

Stiles only shrugs in response. It makes Peter sigh. “Fine. Wear your pajamas out. Let’s go.”

He grabs his keys from his table and goes for the door, obviously not open to anymore negotiation. Stiles downs the rest of his water and reluctantly follows behind him. 

-

Peter’s idea of ‘getting out’ and ‘getting fresh air’, after a trip in the car he kept raving about the rarity of, turns out to be going to this high end clothes store across town. The odd looks Stiles keeps getting almost make him regret his stubbornness to put on some real clothes. Almost. But they’re mostly easy to ignore when Peter keeps handing him clothes to try on.

He hadn’t expected Peter to take such an active roll in finding him clothes. Maybe he saw Stiles instantly gravitating towards the pajama section and decided he had to take action. 

Stiles steps out of the dressing room uncomfortably, dawned now in brown pants and a white sweater. Peter looks up from the rack he was searching through, looking over Stiles’ hunched body. “The pants are nice.” He says, stepping closer. He looks over Stiles’ torso for so long it makes Stiles want to cover himself with his hands. 

“The shirt’s a little too big on you.” He comments. Stiles doesn’t doubt that. When he glanced at himself shirtless in the mirror he saw his ribs. He hasn’t been eating very much in the last few weeks. 

Peter goes back to the rack, pulling out a plaid button down. He goes back to Stiles, holds it up near his sweater to look it over. “Maybe with this underneath.” He says quietly, like he’s thinking.

He hands the shirt to Stiles and returns back to the racks, this time picking one on his left. Stiles examines the shirt. When he finds the tag he blanches slightly. He glances at the pile of clothes Peter’s already approved of. 

“Do you honestly think I can afford all this?” He asks, walking up next to him. He didn’t think this trip meant buying an entire new wardrobe, which Stiles couldn’t afford even if they were at a reasonably priced store. Dad left enough money for a few months at an apartment, and not much more. He can’t waste it all on this.

“Don’t worry about it.” Peter says distractedly, still looking over the clothes. 

Stiles furrows his brows. “What? No, I don’t want you to-“

“Oh please, with the pout.” Peter shoots him a look. “I’m the one who has to look at you. I’d rather see something more appealing.” He looks away again, adding, “Though as a trade I will be burning your sweatpants.”

Stiles shifts, cautiously examining Peter. “Why are you doing this?” He asks, more in confusion than suspicion. How does this benefit Peter? Any of this?

“I just told you.” Peter responds cooly. He picks out a red sweater. Then he grabs Stiles’ hand, pulling it towards the piece of clothing. 

Stiles’ eyes widen, unsure whether or not he should pull away. Peter acts like it’s nothing. He just examines Stiles’ skin next to the fabric, commenting casually, “Burgundy would go lovely with your skin tone, you don’t wear it enough.”

With that, he lets go of his hand. Stiles pulls it back quickly, eyes still fixed on Peter in surprise. Peter either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he hands the shirt to Stiles and says, “Go try this one on.”

-

He doesn’t stop thinking about the way he touched his hand for the rest of the day.

-

Stiles walks from the guest room, dressed in one of the outfits Peter picked out (he ended up buying him an ungodly amount of clothes this afternoon and Stiles is still beyond confused why he would do that, but that’s besides the point), and stands in the living room expectantly, arms out.

Peter glances away from whatever he’s doing in the kitchen. He eyes him carefully before a sarcastic smirk crosses his lips. “Like a real person again.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes as Peter returns to what he’s doing. “What are you making?” He asks. He’s not sure why. 

“Venison.” Peter responds unbothered, and Stiles looks down at the meat Peter is cutting.

Stiles crosses his arms. “Did you catch it?”

“No, I bought it at the deli down the street.” Peter answers with a head tilt. Like it’s obvious. Stiles shrugs. Peter looks back at him. “Would you like to help?”

Stiles grimaces. “I’m not hungry.” He’s never hungry. He can’t even remember the last full meal he had. Was it the food at that restaurant after his father’s funeral? He doesn’t remember entirely, just remembers it tasting like chalk. He does vaguely recall having to choke it down when Scott shot him too many concerned looks.

“That wasn’t my question.” Peter pulls a knife from a block of them and puts it down on the island. “If you’d like to make yourself useful I have an onion that needs to be chopped.”

It almost feels like an offering more than a command. Until he remembers that this is Peter Hale he’s talking to. He definitely just wants the free labor.

Stiles would usually deny the request, but he _did_ just buy him all those clothes. And suddenly he thinks he’s found out Peter’s plan; make him indebted to him. Why? Some dastardly scheme no doubt. Still, Stiles remains uninterested in the consequences of all of this. 

He sighs, but does walk over to the counter. He takes a seat at one of the stools and picks up the knife. “Cut them into thin slices, like this.” Peter says. And once again he’s taking Stiles’ hand in his. It shouldn’t be as surprising the second time, but it still is. Peter’s always been this touchy, right? 

He guides Stiles hands into cutting the onion, and he shows how thin he wants them. Then he pulls away, returning to his own chopping.

Stiles swallows, tries to shake this off. He keeps chopping.

“How are you cooking it?” He asks after a minute or two of silence. He’s almost surprised to hear the words come out of this own mouth. He used to be unable to control what he would say, but lately he’s been so quiet. 

Peter seems surprised by the question as well. He hides it quickly, explaining, “I cook it in a pan with truffle oil, like a steak.” He walks over to his over, cutting board full of red meat in hand. “Then I top it with caramelized onions and mushrooms.” He dumps the sliced meat into his pan, and the sound of sizzling fills the room. He picks up a jar full of what looks like herbs and explains, “But the key is the parsley.” He drops the herb in with the meat, “Always fresh.”

“Where do you get it fresh?” Stiles questions further. For once, Peter’s talking is actually not that awful. It gives Stiles something distracting to focus on. He doesn’t care about how Peter cooks his food, but he rather hear about it than have to think about anything else. 

Peter seems happy to indulge. “I have a garden on the terrace.” Stiles glances back at the patio doors. When he looks back Peter continues to explain from where he’s stood over the pan, “But every couple of weeks there’s a farmers market open a half an hour away.”

Stiles puts down his knife, the two onions in front of him finally cut. Peter sprinkles salt into his pan, asking, “Have you ever tried venison?”

Stiles shakes his head. He and his dad ate a lot of takeout and leftovers, but on the rare occasion they ate an actual home cooked meal it would always be something simple like burgers or meatloaf. And in school, Stiles pretty much ate whatever was in the dining hall, which definitely did not include deer. 

“It’s like beef. But much richer. A little gamey.” He lowers the flame, grabbing a fork from the other side of the counter. He pierces one of the slices and picks it up, stepping over to where Stiles is still sitting. “Try it.”

Maybe if he were himself he’d be suspicious that Peter poisoned it. He doesn’t suspect a thing in the moment, though. He hesitantly reaches out and takes the fork. He takes a small bite of the meat and is genuinely surprised when he doesn’t find it disgusting. 

“Good?” Peter asks.

Stiles bites into the slice again, nodding. Jesus, when’s the last time he ate something this hot? Something other than a stale energy bar? He’d almost forgotten what real food tasted like.

Peter doesn’t look overly thrilled, but he does like slightly pleased. Maybe he’s just prideful about his cooking, like he is with everything else. “Would you like a plate?” 

Stiles swallows down the food. “... okay.”

-

He wears that burgundy sweater, for whatever that means. He wears it a lot. 

-

Peter doesn’t do much.

He’d expected at least some light scheming. But after a few weeks into living with him it’s clear he was wrong in his assumption that Peter spends his days plotting. All Peter _actually_ does most days is sit on his couch, with his feet up on the coffee table, and read. Sometimes he’s on his laptop, but Stiles is pretty sure he manages property like Derek used to. He’d never pegged Peter as someone who just liked to lounge around all day, but in retrospect maybe he should’ve. 

It’s really easy to forget that Peter is a werewolf. Which is weird, because when he first met him he was a psychotic alpha raging through Beacon Hills. He’s in so much control of his shift that Stiles has yet to see even a peak of claws or a flash of glowing eyes, even when the full moon passed. All he did when that happened was work out for a bit and go to sleep early. It’s like that desire he had to be an alpha totally disappeared when he came back toll life.

He does yoga every morning, which was also surprising at first but now is just a part of the daily routine. 

Speaking of which, for Stiles, doesn’t consist of much. He wakes up and just hangs out in the living room, having moved out of his nest in the guest bedroom for the most part. Sometimes he’ll read one of the books from Peter’s vast collection. But oddly, he mostly finds himself just watching Peter. Which is just beyond strange, but it’s a distraction he supposes. He’s engrossed himself so much in Peter’s life that he doesn’t have to think about the chaotic state of his own right now. 

Peter cooks dinner every night. It’s always something fancy and time consuming, like rabbit stew, or homemade bread, or filet mignon. Stiles helps usually, but always something menial like chopping. Peter clearly does not trust him enough not to fuck up the dishes he loves to brag about.

Stiles actually eats most of them, too. He hardly ever can finish his plate, but he does eat the food and can admit that Peter is a very good cook. Though he doesn’t think he has the stomach to ever stroke his ego like the aloud, he’s cocky enough as it is.

Despite the fact that they spend almost all day, everyday, together, they don’t talk much. Or, at least, they don’t have conversations.

Peter talks. Peter talks a lot.

It’s always to brag about his many antiques, explain where and how he acquired each of them. Almost every piece of furniture in his house has a story and he has shelves and shelves displaying vases or statues from his collection. Sometimes he’ll go into long stories about his many travels all over the world in his twenties. 

Sometimes Stiles asks questions, but sometimes he simply nods along, listening. Because he does listen. He absorbs every last bit of it. The talking stimulates him in a way he hasn’t been in a while, gives his brain a reason to tune in to the world for a while. 

However, it’s clear when Peter’s not in the mood to talk. When he just wants quiet, a little bit of peace. This arrangement would not have been possible if Stiles was acting like himself, constantly in need of stimulation, always talking, always having to do something. But with how he’s been for going on 4 months now, quiet, numb, apathetic; it’s perfect. 

He wonders how long that will last. 

Peter seems perfectly fine with the way he is now. He has to know that it’s starkly different then how he used to be, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. Maybe he likes having someone quiet around who will just listen to him talk and eat his cooking.

Every once in a while Stiles remembers that this is not normal; that he’s living with Peter Hale, that Peter wanted him here. But if Peter hasn’t done anything terrible to him in this many weeks, is he even planning anything at all?

But honestly... the alternative might be far more alarming. 

-

He still can’t sleep very much. He’s always been somewhat of an insomniac, but he’s worse than ever now. His mind won’t shut off for long enough to let himself sleep until he’s truly exhausted, and his anxiety likes to rear it’s ugly head around this time at night as well. A terrible combination.

He usually quells it by scrolling through his phone for hours at a time, watching random videos that provide a distraction. Sometimes he looks through his friends instagrams, but that’s usually pretty depressing as well. 

Most often, he finds, he sneaks out into the living room and watches TV for a few hours. Peter hardly uses it anyways, and doesn’t seem to care if it’s on a night. Or at least, he’s never said anything about it. He goes to sleep pretty early compared to Stiles anyways, and wakes up at an ungodly hour every morning to sit on his terrace and read.

Stiles opens his door quietly, still, as to not wake him sleeping a few rooms away. Though he’s slightly surprised to hear noise already coming from the living room. He furrows a brow, walking in to investigate. He finds Peter on the couch in the dark, wine in his hand, some black and white movie playing on the TV.

Peter notices him immediately, glances over. “Thought I heard you awake in there.” He says casually, turning back to his movie. 

Stiles swallows where he stands awkwardly, glancing at the clock. One am. Pretty late for Peter to still be awake. “Why’re you up?” Stiles asks, crossing his arms.

Peter looks him over again. “Why are you?”

Stiles shifts slightly, but doesn’t answer. He ponders for a moment before going to sit down on the other side of the couch, pulling his legs up to his chest opposed to the way Peter’s sat with an arm spread over the back of the couch and one leg crossed. 

They sit in silence for a while, watching the movie. Stiles thinks it’s French. It looks fairly old, too, if the black and white wasn’t enough of a hint. 

“What is this?” Stiles asks at last, making a face. To be fair, he has absolutely no idea what’s going on and there are no subtitles.

“L'Atalante.” Peter answers without a beat, pronunciation sounding pretty accurate. He begins to explain, “1934. It’s a classic.” He turns to Stiles with a furrowed brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be the one who likes movies? How do you not know what this is?”

Stiles shrugs, resting his chin on his knees. “I like good movies. Like Star Wars or Lord of the Rings.”

Peter scoffs. “Oh, please.” He says, “Those movie are nothing but Hollywood dribble. Popcorn movies.”

Stiles shrugs again. “I like them.” He says uncaringly. He feels just the slightest urge to start arguing about how Peter has a pretty pretentious taste in movies, but he just doesn’t care enough to put in the effort. 

Peter gives him a funny look at that. Stiles glances back away from the screen, to Peter continuing to stare at him, puzzled. “Why are you staring at me like that?” He asks.

Peter’s eyes linger a moment longer before he shakes his head. “Very strange.” He comments. “How much you’ve changed. I was sure that you would start arguing with me.”

Stiles swallows again. He’s not really sure what to say about that. Yeah, he’s different. Nothing really matters anymore and he’s acting accordingly. He sighs, saying, “Guessing you don’t miss the old me.”

Peter tilts his head. “What would make you say that?”

Stiles eyebrows raise. “Are you serious?” He has to ask. “Talking constantly, asking a million questions? I always thought you thought I was annoying.”

Peter seems to think a moment. “Well, yes,” Stiles scoffs despite bringing up the point himself a second ago, but Peter continues, “But I never disliked it. You had a certain... _charm_ to you.”

Stiles loses his train of thought at that. He’s certainly never been called charming. Or had someone find his annoying habits in anyway endearing. But Peter keeps throwing these curveballs. How the hell is he supposed to react to this? 

Peter speaks again before Stiles has a chance to say anything. “Of course I don’t entirely mind the way you are now. Quiet, thoughtful. Sort of...” he pauses, searching for the right word.

Stiles finishes for him, voice slightly detached, “Submissive?”

Peter’s eyes stare into his for a beat too long to be normal. “Yes, exactly.” He says quickly. His gaze lingers another long moment, before looking back towards the TV. He swallows, adding, “Maybe there’s some sort of balance you can strike.”

Stiles looks at the floor. He doesn’t think the old him is coming back anytime soon. Maybe not ever. It sort of died with his dad, and he can’t find the will to dig it back up. Peter seems to catch on, because he looks back at him.

“I know a thing or two about grief, Stiles.” The words startles Stiles slightly, and he freezes up, eyes suddenly locked downwards. Peter takes a soft breath, saying, “I’ve taken plenty of time grieving the way you are now.” Stiles takes in a sharp breath. Peter is supposed to be a distraction from all of that. This is the opposite of a distraction. 

Still, he explains far too normally, lacking any discernible sadness in his tone, “And it changes people. But not forever.”

The fact that Peter can pinpoint exactly how he’s feeling should be more alarming, really. But for some reason he finds comfort in the words. Maybe because Peter obviously knows what he’s talking about when it comes to losing a loved one. Someone gets it, like really gets it instead of feeding him sweet, yet empty condolences. 

Stiles finally finds the will to glance back up. “Is this _incredible_ movie so boring that you’d rather talk to me than watch it?”

He doesn’t say anything about what he just said, but he doesn’t think he has to. At least if Peter’s amused expression is anything to go by. 

He hums, turning back to the screen, “Forget what I said.” He takes a sip of his wine, “Don’t find a balance. I like you better quiet.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh, and though it feels foreign after so long, it’s actually sort of nice.

-

The smell of fresh bread fills the apartment as music plays from the stereo near the terrace doors, open because of the beautiful Spring night. Stiles taps his foot absent minded-ly from where he sits at the counter, slicing tomatoes. He sees Peter come inside from setting the table on the balcony, looking in a particularly good mood.

“The table’s set.” He says, walking towards a shelf at the back of the kitchen. He pulls out a wine bottle and examines it. “The bread should be ready in ten minutes.” He pulls the cork from the bottle and sniffs it, smiling to himself, “And I’ve found the perfect vintage wine to go with it.”

Stiles watches him pull two wine glasses from the cabinet, still smiling. Stiles has never seen him so excited for anything. He would say he looks giddy if that word had any business being associated with Peter. “What are you making that’s making you so happy?” He asks, pushing the cutting board towards Peter.

Peter starts to pour the wine, explaining, “Grilled tomatoes, thyme and thinly sliced chèvre topped on fresh baguette.”

Stiles raises his brows. “So... a sandwich?”

Peter looks up with a supremely unimpressed look. “Please don’t ruin my mood.” With that, he places a glass of wine in front of Stiles and takes his cutting board over to the stove.

Stiles takes the glass, looks down at the dark liquid for a moment. He contemplates taking a sip for only a moment before deciding to. It tastes sweet, but strong. Peter turns back to him, taking a sip of his own. “1959,” He says, “Fantastic year for wine.”

Stiles downs another sip. “So you were like a teenager then?” He asks, feeling some of his old sarcastic tendencies return. Peter’s strangely positive mood must be rubbing off on him. 

The joke earns only a small eye roll, but an amused face nonetheless. Silence follows, the only sound throughout the space an old sounding Italian song. Peter turns from the stove, takes a sip of his own wine.

Then, surprisingly, Peter steps away from the kitchen, holding out a hand to Stiles. “Dance with me.”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “What?” He asks dumbly, staring at the outstretched hand like it’s venomous. Always a curveball, huh? Just when Stiles thinks he has Peter figured out. Well, trying to ‘figure’ Peter out might’ve been his first mistake.

Peter doesn’t miss a beat. “Come dance with me.” He repeats, hand unmoving. 

Stiles’ eyes dart between the hand and Peter’s expectant face. He thinks it over a moment, then downs the rest of his wine and takes Peter’s hand. He doesn’t exactly know why. It’s like ever since he’s been here he hasn’t cared much for making decisions. If Peter offers something, it’s so much simpler to just go along then have to think for himself. 

Peter pulls him towards the center of the living room, where the music is the loudest. He’s quick to put one hand on Stiles’ waist and hold the other gently in his other hand. Stiles swallows, the feeling of Peter’s hand on his waist something he has no idea how to feel about. 

Still, he pushes the feeling (whatever it may be) down, furrowing his brows. “I don’t know how to dance.” He says, shooting Peter a slightly concerned look.

“It’s simple.” He responds. He moves Stiles’ left hand so it’s resting on his shoulder. “Just-“ he pulls Stiles in closer, so their bodies are nearly touching. Stiles swallows thickly as Peter begins to sway in time to the soft song. After a moments Stiles falls into the rhythm. Peter’s eyes pierce his. “Perfect.”

Stiles has no choice but to stare back. And this close it feels like he can look at Peter in a way he’s never been able to. His eyes are so blue. Not really a grey-ish blue, but a bright, icy blue. And despite him being older, he hardly shows it. 

Feeling like he’s staring too much now, he forcefully pulls his eyes away. What the hell is he thinking? Still, he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop swaying. “What is this?” He asks confusedly, voice softer than he intended it to be.

He risks another glance up, and sees that Peter’s eye contact never broke. He hums, and it may be Stiles’ imagination, but he feels like he’s being drawn in even closer. “You ask so many questions.” He tilts his head, saying in a gentle voice, “Can’t you just let it be?”

The words stick in his head. _Just let it be_. That’s been what he’s been doing right? Maybe he _should_ just stop questioning everything. Go with the flow for a change. Let what happen just happen. He’s already come this far, living with someone who he has a dangerous past with, who could’ve easily done something to him by now. What’s a little dancing going to hurt? 

And just like that he’s back staring into Peter’s eyes again. And it must all be in Stiles’ head, but he thinks he can see something in those eyes. What is it, though? It’s like a want. A desire. And maybe Peter’s staring back because he can see the same thing.

He doesn’t know who leans in first.

He tries to convince himself it’s Peter. It has to be. Stiles doesn’t want this. Even if he did, he would never be so stupid to actually go for it. This man has tried to kill him and his friends. He bit Scott. He’s twice his age. He can’t be trusted, not for a moment. 

But the kiss is so gentle. He’s never actually pictured it before, but somewhere in the back of his mind he was convinced that a kiss from Peter would be anything but gentle. It would rough, it would be all consuming. But it’s slow. Their lips meet softly, and Peter doesn’t take at all, he eases in. 

And Stiles is kissing back. He’s tightening his grip on Peter’s shoulder, and for a moment all he can focus on is how good their lips feel together. 

It doesn’t last long, but that should be obvious. Once Stiles comes to his still far-too-slow senses, he pulls away, steps backwards quickly.

He’s a little too caught off guard to focus on Peter’s initial reaction, but it’s almost like he’s surprised as well. Not as outwardly as Stiles, but still. The expression changes though to something far more neutral. Stiles takes a deep breath, eyes wide. His lips still feel the contact despite pulling away.

And suddenly he feels like an idiot. Because of course; this was Peter’s plan. This is why he was so ‘generous’ to let him stay here, to buy him clothes, to cook for him. Stiles knew, he _knew_ , he had some kind of sinister plan, it was only a matter of time. _This_... was unexpected. But it all makes sense, right? All the touching, the dancing. This is what Peter wants from him.

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “What the hell?” He asks, voice more full of emotion now then it has been in months. 

Peter takes a breath. He straightens his shirt, looking as casual as ever. “Okay.” He says in a placating way, “Take a breath.”

Stiles does, but it’s sharp and it doesn’t calm him down. “You kissed me.” He accuses, like it’s not obvious. 

“Yes.” Peter says, taking another breath. Despite how strongly Stiles is convinced that this was some sort of master plan, he has to admit that Peter does seem as surprised as him. Like he’s trying to figure out what exactly just happened. “I got... carried away.” He says carefully.

Stiles takes another step backwards, feeling overwhelmed. Jesus, has losing his dad made him reckless? Or just completely stupid?

“Is this why you wanted me here?” He asks, “Why you’ve been doing all this stuff for me?”

“No.” Peter responds. The way he still sounds so casual while Stiles is still freaking out is infuriating. “I didn’t lie to you.” Peter tries to assure him.

“So this was completely out of the realm of possibility for you?” Stiles asks.

There’s a silence, and Stiles has his answer. He frowns, just as Peter finally admits, “No, not completely.”

Stiles’ frown deepens, as his eyes search the floor. “Jesus.” He mutters, still not knowing what the hell he’s feeling. He feels upset. He just can’t pinpoint the exact reason. God, why can’t he stop thinking about how nice that kiss felt?

“You’re blowing this out of proportion.” Peter tries to placate again. Stiles’ head snaps with to him with widened eyes. “You’ve been here for months and I’ve been nothing but platonic, have I?” He tilts his head, “Nothing’s changed. You’re free to make your own decisions.” Stiles swallows again, as Peter’s brows raise and he adds, “But you leaned in too.”

Stiles’ mouth opens slightly, but he closes it just as fast, out of words. Because how is he supposed to argue that accusation? That is, argue it without his heartbeat giving him away, because he _did_ lean in too, didn’t he? 

He’s not sure if he regrets it. On a surface level, of course he does, this is mr. creeper Hale, this is a terrible idea. But deep down he isn’t convinced. Deep down, despite the wrongness of it all, he wants to slam their lips back together.

And woah, that is so not a thought he should be having. He swallows, deflecting with a quick, “I’m not hungry,” before retreating to his room. Peter doesn’t follow behind him, doesn’t even say anything. Stiles isn’t able to see his expression as he swiftly shuts the door, taking several step backwards, but he’s hoping it’s not actually smug. Part of him really, _really_ , doesn’t want this to have been his scheme all along.

And he really hopes he’s not being delusional. 

-

It’s hours later when he finally leaves the comfort of the guest bedroom. 

He spent most of it staring at the door, wondering when his brain started to malfunction. He plays with the idea that Peter spiked the wine, and that’s the only reason why he’s being so reckless. It doesn’t quite check out, though, so he sadly puts the theory to rest. 

The music stopped playing almost immediately after he closed his door. He wonders if Peter still ate his pretentious sandwich on the terrace, drinking his fancy wine, completely uncaring of what just happened. He doesn’t know why he hopes he’s wrong.

He walks cautiously into the living room again, eyes singling Peter out, sitting wordlessly on the couch, eye’s already fixed on him as well. As if he was waiting for him to come out. 

They don’t say anything for what feels like an eternity. Stiles straightens his stance slightly, feeling ready to say _something_ , though he isn’t sure what, when Peter says offhandedly, “I left your plate in the microwave.”

Stiles glances momentarily at the kitchen, then back at Peter. “I didn’t come out for food.”

Peter tilts his head curiously, expression seeming like he’s entirely fixated on Stiles’ movements. Like he’s entranced. “Then why did you come out?” He asks breathily.

Stiles tenses his stance. For some reason Peter’s word’s from earlier keep replaying in his head. _Just let it be_.

Stiles takes in a short breath before he speaks again. “This has nothing to do with my dad.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself more than Peter, but he allows it. 

Peter’s eye contact refuses to break. His hands are clasped in his lap and he’s leaning forward. “Okay.” He says.

All it takes is one more breath before Stiles is closing the distance and practically climbing onto Peter to crash their lips together again. This time is fast and passionate, the way he was secretly picturing it. 

Peter doesn’t waste anytime, hand finding it’s way into Stiles hair to pull him closer, his other hand wrapping firmly against Stiles’ waist. Stiles’ eyes are squeezed shut, but he finds Peter’s shirt and clutches the fabric desperately. It’s not Peter who’s taking, it’s Stiles. He feels almost manic, the way he’s trying to devour the other mans mouth.

After a moment Peter’s flipping them, so Stiles is pressed against the couch and Peter is on top of him, firmly placed between his legs. Peter’s lips move from his mouth to his neck, and he kisses a line down to his collar bone. Stiles’ eyes open at last and he takes the small moment to look up to the ceiling.

_Just let it be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you like :)


	2. Summer

He lost his virginity to Peter Hale.

On his couch. 

So that’s... something.

It wasn’t as bad as he thought losing his virginity would be. It didn’t hurt much, and like his kissing predictions he was totally wrong about the way he presumed Peter would be in bed. Again, he thought it would be rough, painful. But Peter was surprisingly gentle with him, easing him into it slowly, kissing him softly.

Stiles didn’t tell him that it was his first time, but Peter had to have figured it out. That’s probably why he was so careful. Or maybe like everything Peter does, he likes to have sex in a drawn-out way, taking his time to savor it like the way he eats his desserts. Stiles isn’t sure which one he prefers.

He doesn’t know if having sex changed anything about their relationship. Isn’t even sure if he can classify it as a ‘relationship’ exactly. But things don’t feel as different as they should. Their daily routine is still the same, only now sometimes they make out after dinner and the sexual tension in the air is way more palpable.

He doesn’t know if he even _wants_ things to change. He shouldn’t, right? Because that makes this more than a roommates-with-benefits situation, which is bad enough as it is.

It’s the beginning of July and he still hasn’t told the pack where he is. In fact, he told them that he got an apartment in Washington and took some extra classes, so he wouldn’t be coming back for Summer break this year. They didn’t give him much argument on it, he assumes because they chalked it up to him ‘not being ready to come back’ or something. Which is true, but he is back, technically. Still not quite ready to face them yet, though.

The longer he’s living with Peter, the worse he knows the outcome of that confrontation is going to be. God, they’re going to think he’s crazy, have him committed for insanity. 

And Christ, maybe they should. Because this is fucking insane. God, he had sex with _Peter_.

The same Peter that killed his own niece, bit Scott, and then tried to murder him and his friends. He may have been an ‘alliance’ to them after that, but everybody hates Peter. Jesus, Scott will never look at him the same, will he?

He hasn’t moved out, though. Despite his anxieties, he’s still not quite ready to end this like he should. He’s really taken his new philosophy to heart, and he’s been going with the flow for a change. He’s certainly feeling more like himself as the weeks go on, but half of him still feels pretty dead. 

Still, even as he sits on the couch, watching Peter grab his keys off of the counter, the feeling of this being a huge mistake is way more prominent on his mind than when he first moved in. 

“I want to start paying rent.” He says from his spot in the living room, completely out of the blue. 

Peter’s brows furrow as he turns his head towards him. “Hm?” He sounds, as he puts his keys into the pocket of his tight jeans. Stiles looks him over head to toe.

“I want to start paying rent.” He repeats, leaning forward in his spot. “I’ve been living here for months, basically free loading.” He shakes his leg up and down, “I feel like I should pay _something_.”

Peter scoffs to himself. Stiles narrows his eyes. “You think I need money from you to pay for this place?” He takes his phone and puts that in his pocket as well, “I certainly don’t need some measly rent check from a broke teenager.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay, obviously you don’t _need_ it.” He gestures to the obviously expensive fixtures throughout the apartment. “But I don’t want to be some charity case or something.” Peter shoots him an unbelieving look, because, well, they both know for sure that Peter doesn’t do charity. Stiles swallows. “I feel like I’m like... your sugar baby or something.” He admits at last.

Peter’s face changes from annoyed confusion to amusement. Stiles cheeks feel pink. “Well, in that case, you make a pretty awful sugar baby.” Stiles’ mouth opens in offense, despite the claim being embarrassing. Peter continues, “I don’t need, or want, any money from you.”

Stiles sighs, resting back into the couch. He still hasn’t figured out why Peter is doing this, and that answer only makes this more confusing. He doesn’t think Peter wanted him here for sex, they’ve only done it once and Peter didn’t even initiate it. So that only leaves more nefarious options. Stiles hasn’t seen any blatant scheming, but maybe he’s being sneaky. 

Peter walks towards the door, asking as he reaches for the knob, “Now, would you like anything from the store? We’re eating lamb tonight.”

Stiles frowns, still sunken into the cushions. “No.” He murmurs, feeling frustrated. 

Peter ignores it, saying, “I’ll be back in an hour.” And with that, he leaves, the sound of the door shutting behind him filling the space.

Stiles takes in a breath, crossing his arms over his chest and letting his eyes fall shut. The feeling of being somewhat like himself again has come with some unforeseen consequences. That being his suspicions of Peter being at an all time high. 

(And it’s definitely not because he wants to deny responsibility of sleeping with and continued interest in Peter. Not at all.) 

Stiles’ eyes pop open after a moment. He stands, looking towards the hallway. He glances back at the front door. Peter’s gone. Stiles is suspicious. That is a terrible combination. Peter should’ve planned for that.

He walks into the hall, glancing between Peter’s room and his office that Stiles has yet to find out any information on despite how strange the locked door is. He swallows, walking over to it. He tries the knob, but as he expected, still locked. He scrunches his nose, wondering whether or not he should pick it.

He ultimately decides against it. He doesn’t want Peter to know he’s been snooping, and he’d definitely figure it out if the office was opened. Hell, Peter doesn’t even go in there. Which only makes Stiles’ curiosity grow, honestly, but he’ll reluctantly forget about it for now. 

He turns his attention to Peter’s bedroom door, across from Stiles’. Stiles hasn’t been in there either, despite the more recent intimacy of their ‘relationship’. He tries the knob and is satisfied when this one isn’t locked.

The door creaks open as Stiles watches from his spot in the doorway. He gives one more look towards the front door before he cautiously steps in. Regardless of his years of experience in the whole snooping field, he is pretty out of practice. Especially because he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. 

He quickly takes in his surroundings. Peter’s bedroom matches the rest of his apartment decor. His dresser is big, made of dark wood, his bed huge and covered in silky-looking blankets. He has quite a few antiques in here as well, including his huge ornate chest sitting at the foot of the bed. Stiles eyes it with interest. Because, Christ, if you were to hide something evil would this not be the perfect place?

He kneels in front of it, examining the lock. He stands and searches Peter’s drawers. He has to dig through dozens of v-neck shirts and expensive pants before he finds a small, silver key, looking like a perfect match to the chest. Bingo.

Sometimes he wished he knew how to exercise restraint. Because when he opens the chest and sees what’s inside, he’s... well, he’s not quite sure how he feels.

Because how the hell are you supposed to feel when someone you’re living with and have slept with has a chest full of handcuffs, whips, rope, along with so many other objects and devices that Stiles doesn’t even know the name of?

Is he supposed to feel horrified? Disgusted? Afraid?

Because right now all he feels is surprise. He doesn’t touch any of it, but he can tell this stuff isn’t cheap either. They’re not those fuzzy handcuffs couples buy when they want to spice things up. They’re heavy duty, leather handcuffs that only a person who has a lot of experience would have. 

Peter has a lot of experience with BDSM, and _that_ scares him a little bit. Because that would mean he was thinking about this when they fucked. When Stiles moved in. Maybe even every time they’ve interacted since then. Were all of those dinners and the things he’s bought him a way to coerce him into something like this? 

He doesn’t picture Peter tying him up. Because that’s not something that’s at all on the table, like ever. He’d have to be a complete idiot to basically hand his helpless, vulnerable self to Peter for the taking. But he can’t stop thinking about whether or not this is something Peter has actually considered doing to him. Thought about. _Fantasized_ about.

Stiles doesn’t even know what he wants the answer to be and that really scares him.

-

As he waits at the counter for Peter to return from the store, it feels an awful lot like he’s waiting for some kind of confrontation. Which he supposes he is, in a way. Just not like a wife waiting to confront her cheating husband. Like a college kid who’s living and sleeping with a mentally unstable older man, waiting to confront him about all the kinky shit he found while snooping in his bedroom.

And wow, this is seeming like a more terrible idea by the second. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing at the clock again and knowing that Peter will be home any minute. Maybe he should break into some of Peter’s wine to make this a little easier. He won’t notice, right? Stiles already broke into his bedroom, what’s the difference?

Before he gets a chance to make his plan a reality, the door is opening and Peter is walking in, hands full of a few brown paper bags. “Hello,” he says when he sees Stiles staring right at him, “Help me with the bags, will you?” He cocks his head towards the hall as he walks over to the kitchen.

Stiles opens his mouth, but closes it again. He swallows, hopping from the stool to go to the still open front door. He tries to go over what he’s going to say as he picks up the remaining two bags. He’s still at a loss when he puts them next to the other bags. He watches anxiously as Peter begins to put away his produce. 

“How was the store?” He blurts out, then instantly cringes. Christ, _how was the store?_ Could he get more fucking lame? Why can’t he just say what he’s thinking instead of tip-toeing around it, when exactly did he lose that skill?

Peter turns to him with slightly furrowed brows. Still, he answers carefully, “It was fine.” He continues to look at Stiles, then asks, “Have you done something that I should be aware of? You have this incredible look of guilt on your face.” 

Stiles’ eyes widen. “No.” He lies. He shrugs, then says just as quickly, “Yes. I guess.” Peter looks at him expectantly. Stiles swallows again. “I was searching your room and found all of your BDSM stuff.” His face scrunches up when he’s done. Okay, Stiles, maybe not _that_ blunt. 

Peter’s eyebrows raise. He places what he was holding onto the counter behind him and then leans against it, eyes fixed on Stiles. Stiles stands frozen in place, but is grateful they at least have the island between them. When Peter finally speaks he says, “Well, I guess I knew you would eventually start snooping where you weren’t supposed to, but honestly? Isn’t four months a little late for you?”

Stiles mouth opens slightly. He clears his throat, saying, “Yeah, the snooping part wasn’t exactly the part I was focused on.”

A grin appears on Peter’s face. “No, I imagine not.” The way he looks Stiles over is something he does often, but it feels particularly dirty now. Like he’s sizing him up for... Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, purposefully avoiding that train of thought. 

“If you think I’m going to do any of _that_ , you’re more insane then I thought.” Stiles says firmly, trying to sound more confident then he feels. He doesn’t know if it comes across. Peter always seems to see through his attempts. 

“I haven’t asked you to, have I?” Peter responds casually. He shrugs his shoulders, saying, “I haven’t even brought it up.”

Stiles tightens his jaw. “So you haven’t thought at all about the possibility of doing that with me? Not once?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “You are so obsessed with hypotheticals.” He sighs, saying, “Yes, Stiles, I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about a lot of things.” Another look over and this time Stiles really wants to hide himself from his view. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to pressure you into anything right now.”

Stiles tongues the inside of his cheek. “You say that like it’s only a matter of time.”

Peter’s grin returns. He steps away from the counter and Stiles fights the urge to step back as he slowly approaches. “Well, I think it’s something you’ve considered the possibility of as well, no?” 

He’s getting closer and suddenly the island barrier doesn’t feel as strong as it did a minute ago. “Because if you hadn’t, I’m not sure you would even bring it up.” He’s at the other side of the island now, and they’re standing far too close. “And you know,” he takes hold of Stiles’ wrist with ease. Stiles huffs in a quick breath. “I think you’d look quite beautiful tied up underneath me.”

Stiles doesn’t rip his arm away the way he wants to. He takes in a breath, trying to mock more confidence as he says, “Yeah, definitely never going to happen.” The grip on his wrist is too tight to slip away, but not tight enough to hurt, so when he tries he’s unsuccessful.

He looks into Peter’s eyes, who looks far too amused. The fact that he can’t get away right now should be worrying him more. It shouldn’t make him feel... God, however he’s fucking feeling right now. Christ, can Peter smell it on him? Is it that obvious?

“Let go of my wrist.” He says in a calm voice despite how much he’s internally freaking out. Peter tilts his head expectantly. Stiles narrows his eyes. “Please?” He tries. Peter obliges this time, almost immediately.

He turns back to his groceries like that was just a normal, average conversation. “Help me put this all away, hm?”

Stiles blinks, still frozen in place. He rubs his wrist, though it doesn’t hurt. He can’t stop running his fingers over the spot Peter grabbed.

-

Peter doesn’t bring it up again. So Stiles guesses he’s staying true to his word, he doesn’t want to pressure Stiles into anything. 

Stiles wishes that made him stop thinking about it.

He waited until Peter went to sleep that night to google everything and anything ropes and handcuffs and gags entail. He figured out what a lot of the other things he found in the chest are used for, and it’s safe to say it’s _a lot_. And obviously his curiosity got the better of him and led him down a rabbit hole of videos.

He’s watched plenty of porn in his day. Probably more than the average person, honestly, which a little bit sad. But he’s seen some bondage before, that’s not new. The kind he’s seen, though, has always been relatively tamed. At least more tame than he stuff he finds when he’s looking for it. Because _Jesus_.

Through it all he tries to stop himself from imagining him and Peter. Tries to stop thinking about what Peter would do to him, given the chance. 

-

Walking through the local farmer’s market is the first time he’s left the apartment since they went shopping.

Okay, not exactly true. He’s left to get the mail, and help Peter bring in the groceries from the car. But he hasn’t been out in public in quite a long time. He hardly even noticed, which may be the worst part. But for some reason Peter decided to drag him to the farmer’s market today, saying something about it being far too beautiful a day to be cooped up inside. Stiles is pretty sure he just wanted someone to carry his bags of vegetables, which Stiles is currently doing. 

He sighs, leaning against a post and watching with sun-squinted eyes as Peter examines the hundredth fucking cucumber. The market is fairly large, but not as crowded as Stiles feared it would be. Not like he’s legitimately worried about running into someone he knows, he’s just a little wary. Luckily no one has given them a second glance. 

“Jesus Christ, are you going to look at every single one?” Stiles complains when Peter swaps out the cucumber he was holding.

He still doesn’t know where the hell they stand. They’ve only fucked the one time, and they don’t talk about it, but that feels more an effort on Stiles’ part than Peter’s. Stiles is actually pretty sure if he initiated something again Peter would be more than happy to comply.

“You can never be too sure.” Peter responds distractedly. “Patience is a virtue, you know. Well, clearly you _don’t_ know.” Stiles huffs out an annoyed breath. Peter finally glances back at him, eyes obscured by sunglasses. “You’re sighing is starting to get on my nerves.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I told you I didn’t want to come.”

“And I told you that if you spend another day inside _you’re_ going to become the vegetable.” He tilts his head condescendingly. Stiles scoffs. Peter reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Go and find something to entertain yourself until I’m done. There’s a little food truck five minutes from here.”

He hands Stiles a twenty dollar bill. Stiles glares at the money, but ultimately takes it, truly too bored to stand around watching Peter sniff vegetables for a second longer. “Ya know the whole ‘I don’t want to be your sugar baby’ conversation we had?” He begins walking away, finishing, “This isn’t helping.”

“I’ll find you when I’m finished.” Peter calls as he goes. Stiles doesn’t have to look at him anymore to know when he’s smirking.

He wanders the market by himself for a while. And that’s when it hits him that he’s hardly ever alone anymore. He’s almost constantly in Peter’s presence. And even when he’s not, Peter’s all he can ever think about. Like right now. Like when he decided it would be just such a smart idea to snoop. _God_ , he wishes he never found all that stuff. It’s ruining his life.

He distracts himself by going towards that little food truck Peter told him about. It’s in a pretty empty area, further away from the stalls. When he steps up to look at the menu he notices there’s only one guy in sight. Looks around his age.

He decides he wants a grilled cheese with bacon and a soda. It feels like a little rebellion from Peter’s kind of food, something greasy and simple. Yeah, Christ, that’ll show him. Stiles holds back his own eye roll. When he walks up to the window they guy, a blond, smiles and says, “Hey, how are you?”

Stiles swallows. “Uh, fine.” Jesus, has he actually not spoken to anyone else since living with Peter? Besides a few pack related phone calls he thinks so. And yeah, that’s sad. 

He places his order, and blondie calls it out to whoever’s in there with him. Then he rests his elbows on his little window ledge and says to Stiles as he waits, “So,” he’s still smiling, “We usually don’t get people here like you.”

Stiles furrows his brow. “Like me?” What, like pale with dark circles under their eyes? People living with psychos twice their age? 

Blondie laughs. “Someone younger than 40.” Stiles holds that little bit of information to make fun of Peter with later.

Stiles smiles apprehensively. “Oh.” He says, casually waiting for his food still, “Uh, yeah, I guess I noticed that.”

Blondie looks him over in the way Peter often does. _Oh_. He’s flirting. Stiles usually can’t tell, but maybe it should’ve been obvious. Is Stiles supposed to flirt back? This guy’s okay looking. His hairs way too bleached, but he has broad shoulders and a goofy little smile. And most importantly, he can’t be any older than 21. 

Fuck, Stiles should be way more into this idea than he is. He’s obviously going through some weird, sexual awakening phase, he should be with somebody normal for that. Not fucking Peter, who he still can’t stop thinking about. 

“So what’re you doing here all alone?” Blondie asks, leaning further forward. 

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “I, uh-“ he begins but is cut off by a hand slipping onto his shoulder from behind and him being pulled subtly against a chest.

“He’s not here alone.” Peter’s voice is saying close to his ear. Stiles glances at his face to see that’s he has a tight, forcefully friendly smile on his face. “Stiles, dear,” Stiles doesn’t not ignore that pet name, though Peter continues, “I put the bags in the car, time to go.”

Before he knows it he’s being turned around, Peter’s possessive shoulder hold transitioning to him holding his hand firmly, all but dragging him away. 

“What about your food? You already paid for it.” Blondie calls after them, confusion unmistakable in his tone. 

“Keep it.” Peter turns his head back briefly to say, before continuing his path towards the parking lot, Stiles in tow.

-

The fact that he never got to eat his little ‘rebellious’ food should tell him something.

-

Peter hasn’t said anything the entire ride home. Stiles for once wishes he had supernatural senses to be able to tell what he’s feeling right now, because his face certainly isn’t giving it away. 

Is he angry? It’s possible. His face is remarkably blank, like he’s purposefully trying to hide something. And he hasn’t even told him what he bought, bragging about his next dish in the process. Very unlike him. 

But if he’s angry Stiles is forced to consider the reason why. _Because someone was flirting with him?_

It seems so preposterous. Why the hell would Peter even give a shit about that? He wouldn’t, not unless... not unless he’s jealous, which sounds even more ridiculous. The implications of that run so deep Stiles is a little afraid to unravel them. Peter can’t be _jealous_. They’ve fucked once. They aren’t romantically involved in the slightest besides that, it’s purely sexual. 

When the car pulls to a stop in Peter’s normal spot in the parking garage, Stiles glances back at him, hands anxiously playing with a loose fabric on the light sweater Peter bought him. When Peter silently goes to open his door Stiles narrows his eyes and asks, “What’s wrong with you?”

Peter stops short of the door handle, turning to Stiles with slightly raised eyebrows. “Nothing at all, why do you ask?” He says in an obviously forced way, like he’s not even trying to hide from Stiles that he’s mad. Like Stiles should already know. 

Stiles furrows his brows. “I don’t know what the big deal is.” He says, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. He shrugs, averting his eyes downward and continuing, “He was just flirting.”

There’s a long pause, and Stiles sneaks another peak up. Peter is looking at him in a pointed way. “Oh, is that all?” He asks with a condescending head tilt.

Stiles goes back to his narrow-eyed look, saying heatedly, “It’s none of your fucking business anyways.” He clutches at the handles of the passengers side seat, “I don’t have to explain myself to you. You don’t have any fucking right to be jealous.”

“I am not jealous.” Peter quickly points out, rolling his eyes. 

“You’re _not_ jealous?” Stiles asks with raised brows. “What exactly would you call not wanting me to flirt with other guys?”

Peter turns back to him sharply. “Forgive me if I don’t find the image of some bleach blond idiot all over you particularly appealing.”

Stiles can’t help but lean in closer, asking between gritted teeth, “ _Why_?”

Peter sighs. “My god, Stiles.” His voice sounds frustrated now, accompanied by him resting his head back into his seat and pinching the bridge of his nose. “What happened to the annoying little human that would say whatever thought came to mind?” He turns back and Stiles’ face falls at the question. Peter only tilts his head. “You keep dancing around what you really want to ask me, and honestly, the charm has worn off.” 

They’re faces feel far closer than they did a moment ago. But Stiles doesn’t pull away. Instead he lets his gaze flicker down to Peter’s lips. He swallows, looks back up. “Is this just about sex?” He asks at last. “Or is it more?”

Peter doesn’t waste anytime, hand moving to rest on Stiles’ thigh, inches above where any platonic touch could be. “Can’t it be about both?” He returns the question.

Stiles glances at the intruding hand, then back up at Peter’s lips. He lets out a breath, and it comes out shorter than he intended. “Fuck it.” He snaps, and doesn't waste a second longer, surging forward and crashing their lips together.

Major de ja vu. 

But it feels slightly different this time. It felt more wild the first time, more impulsive. Like he couldn’t stop himself. This? This feels eerily similar to acceptance. Because honestly, if he’s fucked him once already, what’s the difference?

Peter’s hand finds it’s way into his hair, his other remaining firm on Stiles’ thigh. Stiles struggles momentarily with his seat belt, but as soon as he gets it off he’s practically climbing on top of him. Well, he would if Peter’s stupid vintage car allowed for any head room, because he can’t so much as get onto Peter’s lap without breaking his neck. He makes a frustrated noise against his lips.

He pulls away at his failed attempt, panting as he leans back into his seat. Peter takes a breath, but doesn’t look very surprised by the sudden kiss. In fact, he always kind of has this look that everything’s going according to plan. Which, yeah, is slightly concerning, but Stiles is a little distracted at the moment. Mostly with figuring out how the hell he’s supposed do this in their limited space.

It takes one glance at Peter’s too-tight skinny jeans to come up with a plan. A bad plan. Probably. But a plan.

It’s safe to say he’s never given a blowjob before. The thought’s honestly never even crossed his mind until now. And at least when he goes for Peter’s crotch he finally looks slightly confused. It’s something. He makes a small, interested noise when Stiles starts to unzip his fly. His hand remains in his hair as he says, “Well this is certainly a surprise.”

Stiles glances up, but continues like he’s on a mission. He’s not sure what he’s trying to prove. That he can initiate and control the narrative? Or that he’s just as stupidly impulsive as he thinks he is? Almost definitely the latter. Okay. 90% the latter and like 10% sexual desire. Because surprisingly, Peter’s just what’s doing it for him at this point in his life. He will think about the implications of that later. 

“You’ve never done this before.” Peter states like he knows for sure. Stiles shoots a glare up at him.

“No.” He murmurs, trying to focus.

Peter sounds far too smug when he leans his head back and says, “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.” It’s especially noticeable when he finally gets his cock out and has to start, not knowing how to do this in the slightest. Peter’s hand tightens in his hair and he guides his head. Because of course he does. Because Peter’s experienced and Stiles isn’t. 

The whole time he can’t stop thinking about just how _experienced_ he is. Or why the feeling of his head being forced downwards and choking on a cock for the first time is making him reach a hand into his own pants. 

-

He never gets an answer on that.

-

It’s fair to say that this time their dynamic has changed significantly. Less of a roommates-with-benefits situation and more like-

Christ, he doesn’t even know.

The daily routine is nearly identical, they read, they cook, they eat dinner, Peter tells his stories that Stiles is more up to participating in lately. Only now there’s consistent sex involved. Usually on the couch or Stiles’ bed, which Stiles only finds slightly odd. 

It’s not a crazy amount, which struck Stiles as slightly odd before he understood. But Peter is laid back. He’s not some horny teenager, he wants to relax for the evening, drink a glass of wine, then take his time to fuck Stiles (frustratingly) slowly and enjoy himself. They’re so different that once again, Stiles thinks about how this wouldn’t work if Stiles was completely back to his old self.

Which he’s getting to, believe it or not. It’s still hard to find the energy to do much outside of their fixed routine or occasionally whatever activity Peter suggests, but he’s way more sarcastic and argumentative then he was a few months ago. He doesn’t know if it can be classified as an improvement, but it feels like something.

Despite how wrong this all should feel, it’s sort of a relief. A distraction, maybe. He hasn’t thought about his dad’s death all Summer. And lying to his friends is easier now that they call him less. For a while he can almost pretend he’s over it. Who knew the grieving process was only aided by sex with a former lunatic?

-

The air is cool for a Summer day, especially one in the middle of July. Stiles stares out at the view on the terrace, watching barbecue smoke travel into the sky from a house a few blocks away. He glances over at Peter, sitting at the small table across from him, unsurprisingly with a book in one hand, a glass of lemonade in the other.

Since it’s gotten warmer they spend a lot more time out here, eating dinner out here nearly every night. It’s a relatively small space, but has plenty of room for a barbecue, a small table and several potted spices that Peter collects regularly.

Stiles places his own book onto the table, rubbing his eyes. Peter glances up, then back down at the abandoned book. “You’ve read that one before.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah. I’ve read like all your books.” When he receives an incredulous look he huffs and amends, “Okay, not _all_ of them, but all of the interesting ones.” Peter shakes his head wordlessly, face a combination of annoyed and amused. 

“Would you like me to buy you more?” He asks, eyebrows raising. Stiles frowns. No, he doesn’t want that because he’s not Peter’s fucking _sugar baby_. Though, honestly, who is he kidding? 

Still he says, “No.” He taps his fingers on the table, asking, “Do you have any like... you know, more supernatural-related books?”

Peter abandons his book entirely at the continued questioning, slipping in his bookmark and placing it down on the table. “How do you mean?” He asks with a tired huff, sipping his lemonade. 

Stiles shrugs. “Like books about lore or magic or something?” He continues his tapping. “I know you must have something.” Peter is the first person he would assume to have rare books on the subject of werewolves.

“I’m afraid I lost most of my collection due to unforeseen tragedy.” Peter responds casually.

Stiles cringes slightly. But then he raises a brow and asks, “Most?”

Peter sighs slightly, glancing off at the terrace view of town. “Well, I do have my most precious rare books hidden away in my office.”

Stiles laughs shortly at the joke. Then Peter gives him a look and his eyes widen. “Wait, seriously?” He asks, hoping he’s not shut down with an obvious no. Peter nods, again top casually. Stiles sits up in his seat excitedly, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peter furrows his brows. “So you could pester me to let you read them until my ears bleed?”

Stiles’ mouth opens slightly. “You’re not going to let me read them?”

“No.” Peter says, taking another long sip of his lemonade. “They’re extremely rare, I can’t take any chances. Not even for you.”

He wonders if Peter knows that telling him no to something only makes Stiles get obsessed with doing it. He huffs indignantly. “I’ll be careful!”

“I’m sure you would. Still, I’m not risking it.” He stands them, taking his lemonade and book in one hand.

Stiles gapes at him. “Oh come on! We’re literally sleeping together, what more do I have to do?”

Peter smiles at him. “Stiles.” He steps over on his way to the door inside, “You couldn’t meet my price.”

With that, he runs his hand through Stiles’ hair and leaves, shutting the sliding glass door behind him. Stiles stays for a moment, shocked slightly. So that’s what Peter’s been keeping in his locked room. Does he not realize what a mistake it was to tell him that? Because Stiles is getting to those books, no matter how high Peter’s price may be.

-

Okay. 

So... he can admit it. Sometimes he masturbates at night. 

He waits for Peter to be asleep, he definitely doesn’t want him to know. But hey, he’s in his sexually active prime and Peter has the libido of someone in their early forties; he needs a little bit more than what Peter’s giving. 

But that’s not really the embarrassing part. Because he doesn’t watch porn. He thinks about Peter. 

... He thinks about Peter _doing_ things to him. About what Peter might do to him, if Stiles let him. 

But that’s a weird fantasy that he is planning on keeping lock and key. Because imagining it is one thing, actually going through with it is another and infinitely more terrifying. 

-

He’s not sure how he let Peter convince him to go on a fancy dinner outing. Well, actually, he does because he pretty much agrees to whatever Peter suggests. But this time he did have some reservations. He should’ve never revealed to Peter that’s he’s never been to a restaurant that required a suit and tie. 

Sometimes he thinks Peter just likes to dress him up like a doll. He certainly chooses all of his clothes, like he did tonight with his light blue button down and black tie, suit jacket already abandoned. Despite the Summer weather, their seats at one of the outdoor tables in combination with the restaurant’s location on the water makes for a cooler evening, so Stiles has only been lightly picking at his tie.

“Stop fidgeting.” Peter says across from him, still looking at his menu. Stiles drops his hand from his tie, frowning. Peter looks as well dressed as usual, an all black suit jacket, button down and tie. 

“I don’t know what to get.” Stiles says, glancing down at his own menu. He can’t even pronounce half of the items listed, and the rest are all meals Peter’s cooked before. 

“Get the filet mignon. It’s very good here.” Peter says back, still without looking up. Stiles finds it on his menu and blanches at the price. Christ. He still can’t believe Peter has so much money that dropping sixty bucks on a small portion of steak is something he doesn’t give a second thought to. 

Stiles looks back up when he has a sudden realization, asking, “Is this a date?” 

It makes Peter finally pay attention to him again. He hums, tilting his head. “Is that what you’d like this to be?”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “I- no, I- what?” He shakes his head, trying to find his wording, “That’s not what I- I just, this is a really nice place. If it _isn’t_ a date, it’s an awful lot of effort for a lesser chance of getting lucky tonight.”

Peter smirks. He lowers his menu and says, “I think I have a _very_ good chance of getting lucky tonight.” Just as he finishes the suited waiter returns with the bottle of champagne Peter order a few minutes ago. He takes their orders and leaves again, leaving Peter to pick up his glass. “Try it, it’s delicious.”

Stiles does, and it is. After he lowers his glass he pulls at his tie again. Jesus, he hasn’t had to wear a tie since the funeral. Which is definitely not what he wants to be thinking about right now, and it only makes him want to rip the thing off even more. 

“Leave it.” Peter says, taking another sip of his drink. Stiles rolls his eyes, letting out a frustrated huff as he drops his hand. He’s distracted for just a moment before he focuses on Peter again, who’s looking at him in a particularly pointed way. Stiles furrows his brows.

“Why are looking at me like that?” He asks, voice sounding slightly weary.

Peter lets out a breath. “Oh, no reason.” He folds his hands together in front of him, leaning in slightly. “It’s just in that suit you remind me of how you looked that night on the lacrosse field.”

Stiles remembers the night vividly. He raises his brows, asking, “Oh, the night we killed you?”

Peter’s smirk doesn’t falter. “That’s the one.” He responds without missing a beat. 

Stiles nods, tonguing the inside of his cheek. “Right.” He says. He thinks about how he begged for Lydia’s life on his knees in front of Peter. Who would’ve thought this is how they’d turn out, four years later? No one, hopefully. Certainly not Stiles. “Ah, remember the times. I was sixteen, and you were in your late thirties. Not creepy at all.”

Peter hums again. “Fair enough. But you do look a lot better in a suit now than you did then with all those gangly limbs you didn’t know what to do with.” 

Stiles snorts out a laugh. “Gee thanks.” He murmurs distractedly. Mostly because all this talk of that night has him thinking of something else that happened. He swallows, venturing to ask, “That night,” Peter looks up in interest, “When you offered me the bite... did you really want me in your pack? Or was it just to get to Scott?”

Peter’s hands return in front of him. “A little of both, but I did want you in my pack.” He answers in a confident sounding way, though it’s still hard to tell whether or not he’s telling the truth. But the way he’s says the next part so objectively, Stiles is thinking he is. What he says is, “You were the clever one, after all. Certainly more clever than Scott ever was. In fact, things probably would’ve gone a lot better for me if it had been you in the woods that night instead of him.”

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but closes it a moment later. He’s honestly not sure how the hell he’s supposed to feel about that statement. He doesn’t have much time tp dwell on it, though, as Peter gestures to his glass and says, “Drink, you’ve only had a sip.”

Stiles furrows his brows. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Maybe just a little tipsy.” Peter answers, finishing off his own glass. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You know, next time I get to pick the date.” It does not slip by him that he just admitted to being on a date. With Peter. He scratches the back of his neck, thinking of a way to change the subject. When he does, he says, “Maybe we could just spend a night in. You know. _Reading_.”

Peter reads between the lines immediately and this time it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Oh please don’t ruin my night with more incessant questions about-“

“You know, it’s honestly kind of weird that you won’t let me read any of them.” He argues, falling back into their argument with ease. And yeah, maybe ‘incessant’ isn’t such an overstatement. But he wants to get into that stupid locked room that is haunting his mind.

Peter exasperatedly begins to pour himself another glass. “It’s kind of _weird_ that you won’t shut up about it.” He raises an eyebrow.

Stiles huffs. “You can’t possibly expect me to ignore a secret locked room full of exceptionally rare books that you just happen to keep across the hall from me.”

“I can’t?” Peter asks, followed by another sip. Stiles lets out a frustrated noise, to which Peter responds by saying, “I will _think_ about it, if you stop pestering me. Does that satisfy your little heart?” He tilts his head in a condescending way.

Stiles tongues the inside of his cheek. It does not satisfy him, not at all, but he thinks it might be the best he’s going to get for now. “Fine.” He concedes, leaning back into his seat. 

Peter lets out a semi-relieved sigh. “Thank you.” He says in an over the top way, like Stiles has been completely stressing him out. Which, hey, Stiles _has_ been bugging him for weeks, but it can’t be as annoying as Peter is making it out to be. Maybe. Peter nods towards his glass and says, “Finish your drink, I changed my mind. I do want you drunk.”

-

For the record, Peter did get lucky that night. 

-

Mid-August is as warm as to he expected, especially sitting outside, though Stiles is carefully hidden in the shade, cold bottle of coke on the table in front of him. He finally convinced Peter to pick up some, though he refuses to drink any of it. Stiles continues to watch carefully as Peter tans on a lounge chair a few feet away from him. When he starts to sweat from the heat he finally asks, “You haven’t even thought about it at all, have you?”

Peter hardly even reacts, doesn’t even look up from his sunglasses, face covered by shade, only his shirtless body getting sun. His stupid, perfectly shaped body. Peter sighs at last, which is so not appreciated. “I thought about it.” He says, eyes still closed.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “...And?”

Peter hums. “No.”

Peter gets off on being withholding, Stiles has decided. But that just means he has to resort to bartering, which Stiles is not above at this point. He’s going to read those books if it kills him. “I’ll clean the apartment for a month.”

“Based on the current state of your room I’m going to have to pass.” Peter counters with ease. Stiles curses to himself that he left his dirty clothes on the floor. 

Still, he doesn’t give up, trying, “What if I go grocery shopping?”

“I’d rather not see Cheetos and bottles of sprite in my cabinet.” He retorts once again.

Stiles huffs, rolling his eyes. “What the hell else do I have to do to convince you that I won’t ruin your stupid books?” He whines, leaning his head against the wall behind him in frustration.

“You should keep arguing with me about it, it’s clearly working so well.” Peter mutters, clearly still trying his best to ignore Stiles and continue to tan. Which is honestly just more frustrating. He wonders if Peter knows that and is doing this to intentionally get under his skin or simply wants to be left alone. Either way, he still asks, “Would you like to lay with me? You could use a little bit of color.”

Stiles sighs. “I’ll burn.” 

“Good.” Peter adds, “It will give you something else to focus on for a few days.”

That’s what makes Stiles stand, walking over to stand directly in front of Peter’s seat. Peter doesn’t even have to open his eyes to say, “You’re blocking my sun.”

“ _Peter_.” He says, trying to convey seriousness in his tone. He still doesn’t get Peter’s full attention, but he continues anyways, “I will _literally_ do anything to get into that office, okay? Isn’t this an opportunity that you should be jumping at? I never really took you as a person to let a chance like this pass.”

Peter only sighs again. “My god, you are persistently annoying, do you know that?” There’s finally an edge to his tone, which might mean Stiles is finally getting through to him. Or that he’s about to be thrown off the balcony. Peter finally opens his eyes, saying, “At this point I think I might burn the rest of my collection just to punish you.” Stiles narrows his eyes, as Peter goes on, “I appreciate your willingness to do anything, but I’m afraid I can’t think of a single thing that would be worth it to me. But if you’d like to continue to bother me anyways, please let me know so I can jam a knife into my eardrums.”

With that he closes his eyes again. Stiles stands there, open-mouth, for a long moment. But then he finally thinks of something that he’s almost positive Peter would trade for the books. And it’s quite possibly the dumbest idea he’s ever had. 

Still, he only hesitates a second longer before he blurts out the question, “What if I do something in your chest?”

Well, _that_ certainly gets Peter’s attention, at least if the way he opens his eyes again and lowers his sunglasses are anything to go by. He cocks his head to the side in interest and Stiles knows he’s finally found his answer. _Oh god, he finally found the answer._ “Are you sure about that?” He asks, and it almost sound ominous in the delivery. Like a masked threat. Or like he’s trying to call his bluff.

Stiles swallows, trying not to throw up as he says in mock confidence, “Yeah. I’ll do one thing in that chest. But I get to pick.”

“Didn’t you just say a minute ago that you would do _anything_?” Peter asks, folding his hands together casually as he continues to lie there. “You seem to have a lot of conditions.”

Stiles shifts. He knows what Peter’s doing. He’s trying to throw him off, scare him into calling the whole thing off. But Stiles is as stubborn as he is reckless. “Two things.” He levies. 

Peter looks him up and down. “I don’t know.” He says, looking far more comfortable than Stiles feels. “What do I get out of this little arrangement if I don’t get to do whatever I want to you?” 

Okay, his plan of terrifying Stiles is working. Because picking what they could do was just about the only thing that made this seem feasible, and even then he knew it would be scary. But giving Peter free reign to do whatever he wants to him leaves a pit in his stomach. He’s honestly not sure what it is, but really hopes it isn’t arousal. 

Peter hums again, offering, “Okay. Two things from the chest, but I get to pick them. That’s my final offer.” He looks to Stiles expectantly. Stiles licks his bottom lip, averting his eyes as he thinks it over. He thinks back to everything he found in that chest. There is a huge chance Peter picks something really intense, but would he really do that just to prove a point? Because despite him giving Stiles a hard time, he wants this too, doesn’t he? Would he really try to scare Stiles away from it entirely? Peter pulls him from his thoughts by clicking his tongue, saying, “Unless this is all too much for you. I wouldn’t want to do something you couldn’t handle.”

Stiles turns to him with gritted teeth. Was that a challenge? Stiles stands up a little bit straighter, saying, “Deal.”

The smirk he receives in return is downright devious.

-

It’s not like it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time, but when he’s kneeling on Peter’s bed, shirtless, watching Peter rifle through his chest, Stiles realizes just how stupid of a plan it was. Because Jesus, what the hell did he agree to? All for some stupid books? If Peter’s been planning something evil and just playing the waiting game, Stiles is the metaphorical animal that just stepped willingly into a hunters trap.

He doesn’t totally believe Peter is planning something, but does seem like way more likely of a scenario now that they’re actually here. Especially since he thinks he might throw up right now. Extra especially if Peter rummages through that goddamn chest for a second longer without pulling anything out.

“Jesus fucking Christ can you just pick something?” Stiles snaps after another moment. He can’t take the suspense. 

Peter’s eyes peak up and they looks supremely unimpressed. “You’re heart’s beating like a little rabbit.” He says, turning back to the chest momentarily before he stands, placing a pair of black, leather cuffs onto the edge of the bed. Stiles’ eyes widen slightly. “Are you sure you don’t want to back out while you still have the chance?” He pulls out a black strip of cloth and puts it next to the cuffs before turning to fix Stiles with a curious look.

Stiles spends a moment looking between what Peter’s laid out and Peter himself before he swallows the spit that gathered in his mouth. “No. I just want this to start already.”

Peter obviously doesn’t believe the blatant lie, but he smirks anyways. “Fine by me.” He says smugly. He picks up the cloth and instructs, “Turn around.”

If Stiles’ heart sounded like a rabbit before, he wonder what it sounds like now. Because he’s feeling this bizarre combination of anxiety and excitement. He swallows again, but does turn, feeling awfully exposed despite only having his shirt off. Maybe it’s because Peter’s still fully clothed. 

It’s slightly surprising when Peter comes up behind him and carefully maneuvers the piece of cloth over his eyes, tying the fabric tightly in place. He honestly was not expecting a blindfold, let along one this effective in obscuring any vision. He makes a small noise of surprise, but Peter pays it no mind, securing the blindfold in place and then stepping away. 

Stiles taps his fingers against the bed nervously, trying not to rip the thing off and run out of the room. Despite his lack of sight he can tell Peter is standing behind him, so he asks in that general direction, “What are you gonna do?”

He hears Peter’s hum slightly off from where he suspected he was and that disorients him for a moment. “Nothing we haven’t done before.” Peter assures him. Though that’s slightly vague because they haven’t exactly been saving themselves up until this point. He’s unable to point out that that statement doesn’t narrow it down because Peter instructs again, “Lay down on your back and put your hands at the side of your head.”

Stiles contemplates following the order just on principle, but does ultimately decide to do what he says. Peter’s bed is about as comfortable as he expected, he can feel the silk blanket against his naked back. He takes a deep breath as he hears Peter approach from the side of the bed, then tenses slightly when he feels the mattress dip under his weight. He flinches in surprise when Peter’s hand finds his left wrist. He slips on one of the cuffs with ease, tightening it so the leather is pressed against his skin.

“Too tight?” Peter asks, like he’s asking about the fucking weather.

Stiles shakes his head, letting out a breath. His dad was a cop, of course he’s been in handcuffs before, just with an extremely different context. They certainly didn’t feel like this. The rough metal is replaced by a more comfortable, soft leather, clearly made to be endured for longer amounts of time. 

Stiles waits as Peter continues to wrap the chain connecting the two cuffs around the wooden headboard before restraining Stiles’ other wrist in the same fashion as the first. When he pulls away Stiles tests the restraints, finding himself completely trapped to the headboard. When he feels Peter’s weight leave the bed again, he shifts uncomfortably, anticipation for what could come next building in his chest.

It feels like a century he’s waiting there, having no way of knowing where Peter is in the room. What if he just left? What if he really is punishing Stiles for being so annoying by just leaving him like this for a few hours? Stiles shifts again, frowning. “What are you doing?” He asks anxiously.

It takes a moment before Peter responds, “Watching.”

A chill runs down Stiles’ spine. “Jesus fucking-“ he mutters, squirming slightly against the cuffs. “Stop it!”

Peter’s sinister chuckle rings in Stiles’ ear. “You’re getting all red.” He comments and once again Stiles can hear him step closer. In fact he can practically feel him looming over his body, looking down at him. It sort of feels like the natural culmination of all of those sexually charged looks Peter’s been giving him these past months in a strange way. Was this what he had pictured every time? 

“I’m sort of exposed here.” Stiles tries and fails to sound more in control than he feels.

Peter makes a small noise of recognition of the statement before Stiles can feel his fingertips on his ribcage. Stiles makes a surprised sound at the contact. That saying, that if you lose one of your sense the other ones are heightened? Totally true. Because a simple brushing of Peter’s hand has him basically shivering. 

“You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?” Peter surprises him yet again by asking. Stiles’ brows furrow under the blindfold as Peter’s fingers drift up to his chest. “I thought you might’ve when you brought it up. Judging by the way you smell now, I’m positive.”

Jesus, what the hell is his smell giving away? Because so far all Stiles feels is completely out of breath and like Peter’s poking at an exposed nerve with his delicate touches.

“No I haven’t.” He forces out just as Peter’s fingers find one of his nipples. He holds in a whimper when he tweaks it. 

Peter sighs contentedly. “We both know that’s a lie.” He whispers, and it feels like he’s leaned in closer. Stiles can’t tell if it’s his imagination when he feels his hot breath on his skin. It’s _definitely_ not his imagination, however, when Peter’s soft grip turns into a squeeze and Stiles can’t hold back the noise he makes. “Why don’t you tell me what you pictured all of those nights I could hear you in your room when you thought I was asleep?”

Stiles lets out a shaky breath when Peter’s grip loosens, and he goes back to light brushes of his fingertips. “This wasn’t part of the deal.” Stiles tries, far too embarrassed to tell Peter what his fucking fantasies were, especially knowing that Peter listened in to him jerking off.

Peter laughs again, hand moving down his stomach and to the hem of his jeans. “Why don’t I go first?” He carefully begins to unbutton the pants, continuing, “I pictured you tied up just like this, with these lovely red ropes I picked up in Japan. They’re perfect for pale, delicate skin like yours.” His hand moves to touch Stiles’ half hard cock through his boxers. Stiles bites his bottom lip to hold in a moan. He needs more, needs to be actually touched.

As Peter starts to rub him in a meaningful way, he finishes, “Have you ever felt what it’s like to not be able to move? To be completely immobile while giving someone else complete control? It’s _euphoric_.”

Stiles huffs in a breath, not sure whether it’s the speech, the restraints or the way Peter’s touching him that’s making him feel so worked up. Just knowing that he doesn’t want it to stop. “Peter.” He pants, desperately moving to pick up Peter’s slow pace. 

Peter frustratingly does not pick up the pace, which only gets Stiles into a further state of desperation. Instead, he says calmly yet commandingly, “Tell me what you were picturing.”

Stiles makes a frustrated noise. “ _This_!” He practically yells, needing more stimulation but not being able to do anything about it only adding his his aroused state.

Peter doesn’t give in so easily. “Oh, now we both know that’s another lie.” He stops his hands movements entirely, “Tell me.”

Stiles grits his teeth, panting even harder. He grunts in frustration, saying “Fine! I was picturing you fucking me and I couldn’t do anything but just take it.” He swallows at the admission, “And- and you had all the control and I didn’t even have to think. Is that enough?” He pulls frantically at the cuffs, “Will you please just fucking touch me?!”

When Peter finally reaches into his boxes and grips his cock he nearly levitates off of the bed when he arches his back, not able to bite back a loud moan of pleasure. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He shouts as Peter jerks him off hard and fast. 

He’s barely able to control himself as he moans out, “Fuck, _Peter_.” He can feel himself getting to climax and he whimpers, letting his head fall onto the mattress. “Fuck, I’m gonna fucking...”

His eyes squeeze shut as the orgasm is practically ripped out of him. He squirms, thrusting up into Peter’s hand as he cums more intensely than he’s ever felt before. His hands grips the cuffs tightly as he rides it out, Peter’s strokes not letting up, practically convulsing for what feels like forever. 

When he finally feels the aftershocks he falls back onto the bed, panting. That’s when he hears Peter’s grunts. It’s only a moment later that he feels something hot land on his chest and he realizes that Peter had been jerking himself off as well. 

It’s takes a few moments of mutual panting before Peter reaches over and unties Stiles’ blindfold. Stiles squints at the sudden light, but feels far too pliant after that intense orgasm to do much about it. He does, however, look up at Peter, who’s staring at him with glowing blue eyes. Stiles only stares back dazedly.

That’s when Peter leans down and devours Stiles in a kiss. Incidentally, this is exactly what Stiles was picturing their first kiss would be like. Stiles kisses back lazily, feeling unbelievably loose and, for the first time in months, completely weightless. 

Completely content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you enjoyed!


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